


Southern Boys

by a_pocket_full_of_fancy_words



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Consensual Kink, Discipline, Dom/sub, Food Kink, Impact Play, M/M, Oral Sex, S&M, Sexual Fantasy, Spanking, Strapping, Switching, mild roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-01
Updated: 2013-11-01
Packaged: 2017-12-31 04:53:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1027442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_pocket_full_of_fancy_words/pseuds/a_pocket_full_of_fancy_words
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or: "The one where Kirk gives Bones the woodshed treatment and then they take things upstairs". </p><p>Tradition had always been something of a thing for McCoy. It was a rarity, a quirk, odd little adherences to custom that was so far outdated that it was often forgotten. Admittedly, it went a little deeper than dress sense and food, but he didn’t have time to think about it, pressed over the bench behind the woodshed at his Ma’s. He was still a mama’s boy, after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Southern Boys

**Author's Note:**

> Just a heads up that this is kind of severe - Jim doesn't piss around here.

Tradition had always been something of a _thing_ for McCoy. It was a rarity, a quirk, odd little adherences to custom that was so far outdated that it was often forgotten. If he wore a hat, he tipped it to passers-by as a sign of respect. He liked his pumpkin pie warm (and abundant) and his shoes shined, and although he wasn’t one for formal clothes, when the occasion called for it, he scrubbed up pretty darn well in his crisp white shirts, starched just like they used to, and his pressed trousers and his blazer and his bow tie. Much better than he did in his nasty modern dress uniform.

Admittedly, it went a little deeper than dress sense and food, but he didn’t have time to think about it, pressed over the bench behind the woodshed at his Ma’s. He was still a mama’s boy, after all.

His fingers scraped at the wood, catching the outer eroded layer as a green-grey sludge under his fingernails as his pants were hoiked down to his ankles, tighty-whities dragged with them.

He whimpered but didn’t dare to protest; begging had never done him any good and it was not about to start.

“Don’t you move now!” The accent is a mocking immitation of his own. He doesn't; he just squirms, feeling exposed and frightened, resting his damp cheek on the wood and gripping the end of the bench.

There are footsteps behind him, followed by a sound that made his skin crawl; a snip and a swish as a fresh switch was tested against the air.

“H-how many?” He asks, not that he usually gets an answer.

The response is a whistling noise and a crack and a searing heat across the tops of his thighs, shock and pain enough to draw a tiny scream from his lips. He doesn’t dare turn around to look, but he knows what he’ll find there; a thin, bloodless line of white flesh surrounded by puffy, angry red swelling all the away across the tops of both legs, half an inch thick.

“How many _sir_!”

“Sorry sir! How many sir?” He swallows, throat dry and clicking.

“Till you’ve had enough!”

He struggles to keep his breathing calm, tries not to jiggle his legs in anticipation, muscles already trying to dance out of the way. It will be worse if he does.

“Yes sir, thank you sir.”

This man doesn’t mess around; the switch whooshes through empty air a few times before crashing down on his ass; the blow is followed right the way through for the entire, agonising impact, across the fullest point.

He doesn’t count, there isn’t time to; the second blow comes straight after, raising a thick band of pale skin from the lower portion of his backside. He doesn’t cry out, yet, either, because he’s panting like he’s sprinted a mile; great, vocalised gasps of oxygen in and out, like a woman in labour.

The shock of the pain means he also hasn't started crying, save the leftover tears from pre-punishment nerves. He hates the switch. _Hates it_. It cuts into him a fourth time, and a fifth, before finally drawing a cry of agony when the sixth lands crooked and slices across the previous welts.

From there it’s all downhill; he’s a shuddering, sobbing mess as the next ten strikes hit home, criss-crossing each other and defining the bruises he will wear for the rest of the week. He is certain that the fifteenth breaks skin, but he stays put, stays pressed half naked over that bench with his shirt pushed up under his ribcage and his cock being rubbed against the dry wood, half hard and intermittently flagging and growing again at the contradiction of pain and exhibitionism.

“Please! Stop!” He grits out as the switch keeps coming. His hips are dancing now, one leg down, toes curling in the dirt, the other stretched back along the bench. “Please! I’ll - I’ll be – good! Ah!”

The switch splinters and there’s a momentary pause. “Please sir, I won’t ever do it again!” He promises.

“That’s what you said last time. You’re gonna remember this lesson if it kills me!”

The sound of another switch being cut and tested draws more panic and tears out of him and he sobs into the bench. He wants to say that it might kill _him_ , but he doesn't dare. “Please no! I learned my lesson! I’ll be good, please not the switch again!”

There’s a different sound, a tube being uncapped that gives him hope. His ass only gets cream rubbed into it at the end of his punishment. His cock twitches at the thought.

It's a false hope. Cream is rubbed into his bruised, abused ass, but it is not soothing.

“Capsaicin cream. Old fashioned treatment for arthritis, but it’s heat activated, and on a butt as warm as yours, that gonna be a mighty sting!”

He screams and shakes and sobs and his ass _burns_ , feeling a thousand degrees. He's a doctor and he's prescribed this stuff before - only now he can't believe his patients don't come back with their lawyers. The skin must react to this physically; must be puffing up and reddening further. He’s had capsaicin cream in the past, but only when they’re in public, instead of a spanking, not as part of one. He feels sick.

When the second switch starts out on its mission to make him pay, his screams and cries become inarticulate. It comes down on his cheeks again and again, barely a second between strokes, and he scrambles and thrashes against the bench, trying with all his might not to bring his hand or feet up to cover his butt. He learned a long time ago that taking the switch across the bottoms of your feet is more painful, that having the spanking repeated on the palm of each hand afterwards is not worth it. But he can still holler with the best of them, and that’s what he does right now.

The switching is unrelenting. The second switch strikes its thirtieth blow and his shrieking begins to taper off as he exhausts himself and runs his vocal chords. His voice is broken and pleading.

“Please!” Swish-crack, swish-crack, swish-crack. “Please! Please stop! I’ll be good! I won’t never do it again! Please! No more o’ the switch!”

Another spank and another comes down and he descends into despair. His erection is gone; he can’t survive this, it’s too much. His face is covered in snot and tears and his whole body is convulsing involuntarily.

When the spanking finally ends, he doesn’t notice except for the lack of sound. The capsaicin is keeping him on fire, burning, and he’s crying quiet, desperate tears.

“P-please n-n-no more! I’m so-sorry! I’ll be good!” He’s begging and he knows it. Before he’d first received the switch he’d never begged; he was always far too proud. Now he'll do anything to stop it.

For a minute, he’s left to just cry, with no news as to whether his punishment is over or not. Then a warm hand startles him on the exposed small of his back.

He’s murmuring that he’ll be good, that please, he can’t take another smack and he’ll never do it again like a mantra. His ribs are heaving, his hands have let go of the bench to cover his face and they’re shaking, impressed with dents from gripping so hard. His leg on the ground is still shaking his ass as though being still will expose him to further reprimand, and he can’t control any of it.

“Bones,” Jim says softly, holding him gently from behind, kissing the back of his neck, trying to ease him up. “Come on Bones, you did so good, you did so well.”

After a minute he allows himself to be coaxed upright to somehow awkwardly straddle Jim’s lap; face buried in the other man’s neck, ass held clear of the fabric of Jim’s jeans. He isn’t certain when exactly he lost his own, but they’re there on the floor, covered in dust. He’s still crying, hard, and trembling, and he’s getting snot on Jim’s shirt. He clutches at it, holding Jim close.

“Bones, you’ve been so good, I’m so proud of you.” He nods and cries more, still not ready for words, and his ass burning as though the blows are still coming. The pain isn’t even starting to subside and he bounces in Jim’s lap, trying in vain to avoid it. “Bones, I’m gonna need you to get up a second so I can get something to make the capsaicin go away, can you do that?”

He nods, but he needs support to stand up, jellied legs unwilling to hold him aloft, so Jim lays him gently along the bench and turns towards the shed.

“I’ll be one moment,” Jim promises.

When he reappears, he’s carrying what appears to be an obscenely large jug of cream.

“Wh-what’s’at for?” Leonard finally manages.

“Water only makes it worse, you know that,” He does know that. He knows from the first hands-free spanking he ever got, where he hopped straight into a shower and only succeeded in spreading the cream to other, more sensitive areas, and making it a hell of a lot worse with the heat. Since then, the rules have been that he has to let the punishment run its full course. “The fat molecules in the cream will bind to it and carry it away easier.”

Jim shifts him to the end of the bench, on his back with his ass off the edge and his knees to his chest; it is not the most dignified position he’s ever been in, but it forces his breathing under control and it makes his cock twitch again to spite both itself and his tear-streaked cheeks.

It’s erotic, having Jim dip up a handful of cream and let it run through his fingers onto his abused flesh. It cools a lot of the burn immediately, and Jim works it in. It hurts; warm hands running over swollen, broken, sensitised skin, makes him whimper and cry again. It’s like an extended part of his punishment.

“Be a good boy, Bones,” Jim tells him. He tries.

Jim simply pours a half pint of cream directly onto him and it cools him further, dripping onto the floor in white spatters and running up his crack. It tingles around his hole, carrying capsaicin and leaving him sensitive, but most of it is bound up in fat molecules now and it doesn’t linger and burn.

Jim runs his fingers along the whited out bruises and ridges, the redness glowing through the cream and Leonard sobs softly. The treatment is making his cock plump with interest.

“Well done. It’s okay, it’s over now.”

“It still burns!” He sniffles. Jim is kneeling in the dirt by his ass, face inches from it. Bones looks down at him in complaint.

“I know it does, sweetheart, but that’s not the cream, that’s the switch.”

Jim kisses him, on the lower half of his right cheek and then the left, lips feeling wheels and welts and coming back stained white with cream. Then his head bobs back down and he licks a long line up McCoy’s crack, the edges of his tongue rough against abused skin and the centre stroking slowly over his asshole like they have all weekend. They do. His mother is away.

“I love you Bones,” Jim pauses for a moment.

“I love you too. Now, please…” He moans for a whole lot of different reasons than he had been fifteen minutes before.

“No.” Jim pulls back, grinning at him evilly. “You have… twenty minutes to be showered and in your pyjamas in bed, or else don’t bother to put the pyjama bottoms back on cos I bought a new belt.”

For a moment, the threat doesn’t sink in, and then he skitters away towards the house, pants forgotten, to get in the shower.

The warm water hurts his ass, but any colder and he’d lose his erection and he doesn’t want to, so he waits out the pain as he washes. When he gets out, he rushes straight into his room wrapped in a towel, meaning to search out his pyjamas, but gets distracted by the full-length mirror.

He stands in front of it, naked, looking at the mess of welts and bruises that goes from the top two inches of his thighs to three quarters of the way over his ass cheeks. The worst areas are the sit spots, which are mottled deep purple with bruising and bleeding just slightly in several places, any scabs washed away in the shower. They’re surrounded by blue lines radiating out and the skin between them is tight and red and shiny with swelling. He traces them with his fingers, shuddering, cock twitching constantly, achingly hard. It doesn't look as bad as it felt, but even then he's never been whipped this badly before. Then the door slams open and he jumps a foot in the air.

Jim tuts at him playfully and unloops the belt. “Bad boy Bones, twenty minutes is up and you just got caught red handed.”

He lays over the end of the bed without being told, ass in the air as Jim folds the belt in half and holds tight to the buckle. He's pretty sure the length of the twenty minutes was arbitrary and he's pretty damn certain he's only taken fifteen, but answering back never bodes well.

“Sorry sir,” He says to no avail. Jim will beat him regardless now. It’s all been agreed. His cock is leaking against the footboard. He’s not crying, this time, although he will be in a minute. Jim always spanks till he cries.

“Sorry Bones, you know the rules. Thought you’d be more careful since you just got the switch, but oh well.”

The belt slingshots across both cheeks, and the renewed pain is enough to make him yelp. The second gets the tears flowing and after a third, Jim stops, obviously worried he was taking it too far. He sat on the edge of the bed. “Over my lap, Bones.”

He wonders if he’s going to be spanked more, but Jim simply strokes his back and ass, soothing him and whispering to him that he’s done well, that he loves him, that he’s so hot.

He sniffles, and Jim shifts until they’re perpendicular but crotch to crotch, letting him feel the hardness through his pants.

“You’re beautiful, Bones,” Jim cards his fingers through his hair and presses on his lower back so that their cock’s rub. He reaches a hand down and pushes a knuckle into McCoy’s perineum, making him groan.

“I’m not gonna last long,” He warns, severely understating the situation.

“That’s okay,” Jim says, and the second he does, Bones comes, hard, messing up Jim’s trousers, writhing in his lap as though he’s still being spanked. “Fuck, Bones, that’s hot.”

Despite the nickname, he’s completely boneless in Jim’s lap, limp and sated and fucked and beaten out.

He lets Jim roll him onto his back even though it makes his ass brush against the sheets, helps clumsily as Jim struggles out of his clothes and lays there watching as Jim jerks off.

When he can see that Jim’s close, he sits up, ignoring the discomfort, and pushes the hands away. “Let me.”

Someone once told him he sucked cock like he loved it. Now, he does it like he loves Jim, loves the slippery pre-cum-covered head of Jim’s cock and the slide of it down his throat. Loves his smell and loves reaching out to roll his balls in their sack. Loves to lap at the frenulum and tongue at the slit and the sensitive rim, the weight of it. But when Jim groans and shoots his load directly onto his rasping tongue, he still spits it out into a tissue from the nightstand.

“Gives you stomach aches,” He explains, like he does every time. “Unhygienic at the best o’ times, and –“

“God, you’re such a doctor! You’re meant to swallow it down!” Jim grins at him, teasing.

“Meant to?” He laughs.

“What can I say Bones?" Jim eyes sparkle as he absently traces a bruise spreading out from McCoy's still throbbing ass with his thumb. "I’m a traditionalist!”


End file.
